


built to create/designed to destroy

by dreamingofstatic



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Blood and Injury, Bruises, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Derogatory Language, Dubcon Cuddling, Dubcon Kissing, Dubious Consent, Forehead Kisses, Implied Sexual Content, Intimacy, Kidnapping, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, No Incest, Other, Rough Kissing, Sibling Rivalry, Stockholm Syndrome, Swearing, The Valeska Twins Are Their Own Warning, Voyeurism, once again that's a grey area, they're hickeys but there's no tag for that, well as close as you can get in this mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:20:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29212566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamingofstatic/pseuds/dreamingofstatic
Summary: You’re so tired lately. Putting up with them takes so much energy, and you didn’t even have a choice in the matter to begin with. Sometimes it feels like your legs won’t move at all, until one of them shows up behind you with candied words and a sharp blade.every day is a thousand tiny battles. you're getting through it as best you can.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska/Reader, Jerome Valeska/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	built to create/designed to destroy

**Author's Note:**

> plot??? never heard of her. have a Vibe, an Aesthetic, if you will, an Atmosphere.
> 
> as always, this isn't exactly canon compliant. jerome survived, him and jeremiah paired up, you're along for the ride, more or less. i tried to make it as in character as possible, idk how well i succeeded.
> 
> hope you all are staying safe during quarantine. we'll get through this eventually.
> 
> title is from villains pt. 1 by emma blackery.

Jerome and Jeremiah, you’d discovered, weren’t very good at sharing.

Jerome was a little more ham-fisted about it; it felt like he had to have his hands on you as often as possible, constantly grabbing whatever limb or inch of flesh that was available to him to pull you ever closer. You always noticed, he could never be subtle about it. The skin on his hands was nowhere near as rough as his face, but his palms were still calloused from years of labor and hasty escapes. Now that the three of you had moved into Jeremiah’s bunker ( _“for safety”_ , Jeremiah insisted), there weren’t a lot of places you could avoid him and his unwanted touch. Jerome may have been less refined than Jeremiah, but he was still sharp as a tack and had also memorized the layout of the dreaded labyrinth. 

Said labyrinth was where you were crouched now, back up against rough stone, hands wrapped around folded knees. It was lucky you had learned to suppress your tears by now, though it wasn’t out of the question that some little twist of the knife from the twins - a smartass comment, someone pinching your skin, a sharp reprimand - could set you off on a crying jag for god knows how long. For now, you just want to be alone, or as alone as you can get here.

“Geez, doll, you certainly know how to make a man feel unwanted.”

You raise your head. Jerome leans against a stone wall, cool as you please. His eyes bore into your crumpled form, appraising you, taking stock of what he can say this time to get under your skin. 

“Is it a crime to want alone time?” You hate the way you sound, trying desperately to seem dry and aloof, but unable to keep a quaver from your voice. Pathetic. Jerome grins, bats his eyelashes. 

“Come on, doll. You know I get... clingy.” 

He strides over to you, stuffs his hands in his pockets, leans over. His shoe digs into the side of your ass. You furrow your brow. 

“Don’t be a jerk. You’ve had me all morning. It’s not like I have a room to run back to.”

Jerome cocks his head. His smile is nauseating, all teeth and chapped lips. 

“Would you rather I called Jeremiah out here? He’d get all pissed off if he thought you were escaping.”

“I wasn’t.” You bite your lip. Jerome grins ever wider.

“He doesn’t know that.”

You blanch. Jeremiah was always the more skeptical of the two, the less trusting twin (though with their experiences there wasn’t much of a margin of error between them). You don’t want to imagine what he’d do if Jerome feeds him that kind of pretty lie. 

“Fine.” You try your best to sound defiant, but the way your legs shake as you push yourself to a standing position defies that illusion. “You win. What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing much.” Jerome sidles up to you, splays his hands over your hips, grins that twisted horrible grin. “Just a little... what did you call it? _Alone time?_ ” 

“It’s not really alone time if we’re together, is it,” you mumble, turning your head to the side to avoid his lips. This doesn’t deter him, and he still manages to get in a few pecks to the cheek before forcefully grabbing your jaw.

"I don’t like it when you act so ungrateful,” He sneers, in between pushing his chapped lips onto yours, teeth clicking painfully. “I’m doin’ you a favor here. Keeping the big bad wolf off your ass.”

You twist in his grip, trying to create at least the illusion of space between you. 

“Now, let’s see... I think there’s some kinda nook or cranny over here... Gimme a minute.” He grabs your arm, rough as ever, tugging you over to a door you could have sworn wasn’t there a moment ago. As soon as it closes behind you, you’re thrown up against concrete, his body caging you in, grinding against you. His lips are relentless, pressed to your neck, your jawline, your collarbone. His whole body feels awash with flame, heated and almost feverish in its intensity. 

“Now then,” Jerome squeezes your sides, scanning not only your shaking body but the walls around you, “let’s see if we can give that damn voyeur a real show.”

* * *

Jerome’s nicknames for you are always so cliche, like he pulled them straight out of a 50’s greaser flick. _Doll, dollface, sweetheart, babe, sugar, darlin’._ Occasionally, when you’ve pissed him off enough, _slut_ and _whore_ work their way into the mix. 

Jeremiah is more caring in his terms of endearment, treating you like a porcelain doll or misbehaving pet. He seems unconvinced of aspects of your autonomy, always _darling_ or _dear_ or _love, beloved. My heart_ emerges when he’s feeling sappy, sticky-sweet, _pretty thing_ when he is anything but. 

You can’t decide which you prefer. If enough time passes, you could almost forget you ever had a real name in the first place.

* * *

“Move over.”

Jerome lounges on one end of the couch, Jeremiah on the other. You’re awkwardly lying between them, head on Jeremiah’s lap while Jerome leans on your thighs. It’s not comfortable, but it was the only position they could agree on tonight. An old black and white movie plays in the background, but you can’t really focus on it due to the constant griping. 

“Can’t, sorry. This couch is too fuckin’ tiny. Shouldn’t’ve cheaped out on everything when you were furnishing the place, Miah.” 

Jerome wiggles as if to prove his point, his hips jutting uncomfortably against your back. Jeremiah scoffs, one hand knotted in your hair and the other resting casually on your throat. Occasionally his thumb will stroke your jawline, fingers tapping against the curve of your neck. You’d think he would be relaxing at this time of night, unwinding from a day’s worth of what he calls work, but you can sense irritation every time his fingertips meet your skin. 

“I didn’t know I would ever have this many people in my home when I was first constructing it,” Jeremiah’s eyes slide over to meet Jerome’s, serpentine, “or I would have prepared accordingly.”

“That would be a fun date.” Jerome leans over, propping his head up on his hands, digging his elbows into your legs. You whimper, but manage to keep from outright yelping. “Furniture shopping. We could really give this place some color, hmm?” 

Jeremiah’s fingers tighten, twisting themselves against your scalp. 

“You’re hurting them.”

Jerome double-takes, blinking comically, before slowly removing his elbows from their position and laying his forearms across your thighs.

“Sorry, sorry. You’re the boss, Miah. Don’t wanna tenderize the meat too much, huh? I know that’s a bit of a touchy subject with you.”

Jeremiah looses his grip on your hair, but the hand cupping your throat doesn’t budge.

“I don’t appreciate you manhandling our guest. They look so unappealing with bruises.”

Jerome bursts into a wild laugh, his body doubling over and preventing you from getting up and out of the way. This might get explosive, and you don’t want to be anywhere near the two of them if they decide to fight.

“ _Guest?_ You’re fuckin’ hilarious, Miah. Treating them like you didn’t steal them right off the street! At least I’m transparent about why they’re here. I mean, this ain’t exactly the Gotham Royal Hotel.”

Jeremiah’s lip curls, and you try to squirm out of their combined grip. Getting caught in the crossfire could easily mean ending up injured, or worse. You’ve always been their preferred method of relieving tension. 

Unfortunately, that seems to be where things are heading tonight. The old-celluloid sound of the movie keeps droning on as Jerome’s fingers snake up the side of your leg, using the soft give of your flesh as a sort of stress toy. Jeremiah in turn drums his fingers against your throat, increasing the pace, his nails feeling just a little sharper than they did before. 

“We could finish this night without bloodshed,” Jeremiah proposes, and your blood goes cold. “Another little contest. I wouldn’t be against taking this elsewhere. At the very least it’ll shut you up.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke about oral-”

Jeremiah’s hand tightens around your throat, and you gasp. Jerome starts laughing again.

“Who’s hurting them now, prettyboy? Geez, you really need to work on your temper.”

“Come on, dear,” Jeremiah turns to you, acidic eyes appraising you coldly. “If we hurry, maybe we can lock him out.”

You slowly get to your feet, reluctant to move towards what was sure to be an unpleasant rest of your evening. Jeremiah frowns as he stands, Jerome following suit shortly after he realizes Jeremiah wasn’t joking.

“What’s wrong? You usually don’t mind this kind of... conflict resolution.”

A lie. You went along with it because being unable to walk the next morning seemed like a better alternative to broken bones.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

“Nothing.” You swallow and meet Jeremiah’s gaze. You don’t like what you see there, something dark and shifting and sadistic in its desires. If Jerome is a raging wildfire, Jeremiah is a vat of cooling nitroglycerin. “Nothing, I’m fine.”

“That’s what I like to hear, sweetheart.” Jerome elbows Jeremiah in the ribs, who rolls his eyes and waits for you to move ahead of him in the procession towards his bedroom. You hate when he does this, forcing you to make the first move. It feels like some shitty way of getting you to reciprocate his affections.

You curse yourself when your pace turns out to be a bit quicker than you’d like.

* * *

You often get the sense that Jerome doesn’t like being down here.

Mind you, coming to that conclusion is about as easy as determining that someone in an apoplectic fit is a bit ticked off. He’s a constant flurry of motion, moving from chamber to hallway to anteroom like he’s allergic to sitting still. You’ve told him before that you don’t know why he’s constantly in a rush, constantly on a knife’s edge, waiting for something exciting to happen in all of this cool grey monotony. 

“He always tells me boring means safe, boring means we’re alive,” he replied once, looming over you in bed, tongue and sharp teeth alternating between pillow talk and biting reminders into your inner thighs. “But to hell with it. It’s dull as fuck down here. I would’ve killed him already just to see some color if he weren’t so much fun to tease. Kinda smart too, but don’t tell him I told you. It’d go right to his fat head.”

He tells you he wants to run away with you, get out of this place, warp Gotham properly, the way he’d intended. In the end, though, the promises are never made good upon. He doesn’t expect you to act disappointed, obviously, and it isn’t hard to stifle a reply in favor of a whine or plea for _more, please, more._ In the end, you’re not important enough to derail what they’re planning. Someone cute to keep around, a warm body, a human shield between a chainsaw and a scalpel. Someone to take the brunt of their aggression so they don’t end up dismembering each other. Not a partner to run away with; a mouse they can pet and coo over, and later, dissect.

They’ll bandage you up and lick your wounds clean to keep you quiet before cutting you open again. It’s all they know how to do.

* * *

You can’t say Jeremiah isn’t a good host. He checks all the right boxes, if not in all the wrong ways. You’re fed, watered, sheltered from the multitude of dangers awaiting aboveground. It’s a shame that whatever lurks below feels so much more deadly, the constant presences watching your every move from doorways, walls, cracks in the concrete. Green security-camera eyes scanning for signs of wrongdoing, invading every aspect of your new life, down to your dreams.

Never trusting you alone, unmonitored. Watching you as you break yourself open, proving him right.

In all fairness, you didn’t expect the glass to break when you dropped it on the counter. There was nobody else in the kitchen, as far as you knew, and you took the opportunity to pour yourself a glass of tap water (the only time you could be certain that it wasn’t drugged). It was just an accident, really, clumsiness or an ill-humored twist of fate. Nevertheless, the outcome is you clutching your palm, hissing, blood streaming in rivulets down your wrist like macabre chainmail. Again, all accidental.

He is there in an instant, fussing like a mother hen, ushering you to a chair and stemming the bleeding with whatever dish towel is nearest. You proffer your wrist and swear, clenching your other hand in a frustrated fist, as Jeremiah searches for the first aid kit under the sink. 

“You’re too clumsy,” he murmurs, rubbing an antiseptic cloth over the wound. “What happened?”

“Dropped a cup,” you wince, “didn’t realize where the glass was. Put my hand down onto it, cut myself. It hurts, Jeremiah, be _careful._ ”

“This is why we can’t let you be alone, dearest.” He reaches for bandages, begins to wind them around the wound. The fabric immediately stains red, and he sighs, as if your body’s response to the injury is only proving his point further. “You’ve been having so many incidents lately. You have to understand our reasoning, love. Don’t you?”

“Not really. Accidents happen.”

“They do, yes,” Jeremiah finishes dressing your wound, but refuses to let go of your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your palm. “But I don’t want them to happen to you if I can help it. You’re not just anyone. I want to keep you undamaged, especially considering our, shall we say, _reckless_ companion. Besides...”

He meets your gaze, sharply, scrutinizing. Your body feels cold all of a sudden, like you’ve been submerged in an ice bath. 

“If this truly was an accident, my dear, what happened to the glass you broke?”

You move almost before you can help it, the glass shard hidden in your other hand aiming for direct contact with Jeremiah’s throat. He lunges, grabs your arm, twists it downwards until you’re screaming for him to let go. He holds you there, looking down at you with not contempt, but disappointment. It stings worse than hatred ever could, knowing that even when you fight back, he still won’t take you seriously. The shard you were holding clatters to the floor, spotted with red.

“Plastic, I think, from now on,” he muses, thumb rubbing circles into your palm as he watches you writhe underneath him. “We wouldn’t want any more _accidents_ to happen, would we?”

* * *

The marks on your back are sprawling, scratches and deep indigo bruises, trailing a sick pattern from the base of your spine to your shoulders. Jerome traces his fingers over them, touch feather-light. He whistles.

“What a hypocrite. _Unappealing,_ my ass. What didja do to set him off this time?”

You wince as he digs his thumb into one of the more tender marks.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

* * *

You only hear them fighting when it’s too late to run away. The minute you hear raised voices, you’re rooted to the spot, frozen. Like watching a horror movie.

Your bandaged fingers tighten around the edges of the magazine you’re reading as one of them throws something, a dull thud against the wall, which results in more shouting. The concrete is soundproofed enough to prevent you from making out the intricacies of what they’re saying, but you can still hear the resonance of a hard slap to the face, the spatter of blood as nails dig into their cheek. Whoever it was, their reaction makes you nearly jump out of your seat; a hard noise, the sound of an impact, someone collapsing to the ground. You want to run, to get away before either one of them decides that you’ll make a better punching bag, when the noise suddenly quiets down. You hear muffled growling, footsteps. Jeremiah bursts into the room, off-kilter, clutching his cheek and clenching his jaw.

He’s pouting like a child, and for a second it’s almost adorable. Then you see the red under his nails, the flushed area of his chalk-white face. Jerome must have dealt quite a blow, for him to be this rattled. 

He turns to the freezer, rummages around in its contents. You can hear him muttering under his breath, threats that would cause your legs to give out if they were directed at you. His back is turned, and you slowly try and stand, make your way towards the door. The minute your foot hits the floor, he turns sharply and locks his gaze with yours.

“Stay.”

You slide back into your seat, digging your fingernails into your palms. When Jeremiah finally sits down, he’s holding a cloth packed with ice to his cheek. The look on his face is still bitter as wormwood, and he wordlessly grasps your hand and begins fidgeting with your fingers. A few minutes pass before you dare to say anything.

“What were you fighting about?”

He furrows his brow, shrugs in a way that suggests roiling anger under a thin coat of false nonchalance. His voice is laced with sarcasm when he finally speaks. 

“He had an idea. I vetoed it. He wasn’t exactly happy with that.”

_Neither were you,_ you think to yourself. Despite your rocky relationship with Jerome, you don’t want to imagine the scratches Jeremiah left on his face. You don’t say this, for fear of losing your tongue altogether, and instead let him keep holding onto your hand. 

“Did he hurt you bad?”

“Not the worst I’ve suffered. I’ll be fine.” He blinks at you and lowers his eyelids, some of the sharpness in his eyes fading. “Are you actually concerned about me?”

You startle; your face feels hot all of a sudden. “Regardless if you are an asshole or not, you were just punched in the face. I don’t know who wouldn’t be at least a little concerned.” 

“How sweet of you.”

More silence. 

“Do you think he’d hurt me like that?”

The question comes without warning; you weren’t even thinking when you asked it. You bite your lip, regret already thudding in your chest with every beat of your heart. Jeremiah tilts his head, flexing the muscles in his neck and shoulders. 

“I don’t know. I doubt he would... lay hands on you in the same sense. But we both know he likes to play rough.”

His grip loosens just slightly, his touch less laced with fury. 

“Are you scared?”

You cast your eyes downward.

“A little. Always.” 

You know you’re going to regret asking what comes next. You ask anyway.

“Would you hurt me?”

“Not like this.” Jeremiah subconsciously presses the ice pack deeper into his cheek. “Not like he would. I’d like to think I’m more of a gentleman than that.”

“You have hurt me.” You don’t like how accusatory your tone is, but you can’t help it at this point. “You hurt me to get me here, you’ve hurt me when I disobeyed you.”

“You tried to slit my throat, pretty thing. You can’t say I wasn’t justified.”

“You _kidnapped-_ you know what?” You wrench your hand away from his grip and stand, kicking your chair away from you. “I don’t even know why I asked. Fuck this, fuck you. Why did I expect you to say anything different?”

Jeremiah snaps his arm out, grabs the edge of your shirt. His pallid eyes narrow, and the snarl in his voice is unmistakably venomous.

“I said _stay._ ” 

* * *

Showers for you nowadays are quick and rushed. At first you saw the idea that they were giving you time for yourself as a blessing, but it became clear fairly quickly that any time longer than 10 minutes was interpreted as dangerous, and your forced routine soon became habit.

The warm water still feels good, though. The idea that if you scrub hard enough, you can rub away the places where they’ve touched you. Where it felt good that they touched you.

The rushing water hides the sound of a door sliding open, but it can’t hide the sudden rush of cold air on your skin, the feeling of two worn hands resting lightly on your hips. 

“Shhhhh,” Jerome’s gravelly laugh ghosts over your ear, “don’t say a word, darlin’. I don’t want anyone else joining in on the fun.”

“Jerome-” You’re quickly silenced as he claps a hand over your mouth. His skin tastes salty, and you contemplate the idea of biting his fingers. You decide against it, as it’s unwise to make him angry when he’s in a state like this.

Definitely nothing to do with how he’s kissing the nape of your neck, hands squeezing the back of your thighs, pulling you closer.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, babe, but I’m pretty sure I said,” he punctuates the gesture by gripping your flesh tighter and tighter, “keep _quiet._ ”

* * *

“Knock knock.”

It’s late; it seems like they only ever go out anymore when it’s late. Neither of them trust each other outside alone, so the compromise was they go out together until it’s safer. You barely hear any mention of them on the news anymore, so you assume that the next time Jerome’s allowed out on his own, he’ll be restraining himself from setting something on fire or chucking a knife into someone important’s back. They both have ideas for something grander, though they never agree, so they’re stuck with each other until they do. It’s almost funny, in a way. 

You’d been curled up on the couch, huddled in the depths of a fuzzy blanket, trying to catch some sleep before they both got back and inevitably woke you up. You weren’t wrong, per se, but you expected them to rouse you from slumber by ways of bickering, or a door slamming, or three to five rapid jabs in the stomach. 

Instead, you’re gently pushed into a sitting position, Jerome on your left, Jeremiah on your right. They pull the blanket around themselves as they hold you in between them, murmuring things to you that come off muffled in your still-groggy mind. Colors in your blurry vision twist and bleed together- the slate grey of the walls, the royal purple of Jeremiah's jacket, the fire red and glossy green of their hair. You yawn.

“Could’ve brought me along,” you say, though you know full well they wouldn’t have. “How was grocery shopping?”

“Satisfactory. We found somewhere that didn’t turn us away at the door.” Jeremiah tugs at his tie, loosening it. You can smell both of their cologne; it clashes at first, but together their scent is sharp and almost spicy. 

“Left the cashier a bit traumatized though,” Jerome giggles, yellow sleeves rolled up to his forearms. “I didn’t think she recognized us, so, naturally, I had to fix that.”

Jeremiah sighs, wraps his arm around your shoulder. “We had to leave fairly quickly after that little stunt. But we got all the essentials.” He kisses you, soft, on your cheek.

Jerome, not to be outdone, curls his arm around your waist. 

“You should make pancakes tomorrow,” he suggests, darting in to kiss your temple. “Brother dearest refuses to let me make ‘em. Something about me being a fire hazard, or whatever.”

You yawn, let yourself drift slow back into unconsciousness. “I could, but I don’t think I’m allowed.”

Jeremiah shrugs. “With supervision, I’m sure it would be fine. I’ll handle all the knifework, of course. But a nice breakfast wouldn’t be amiss.”

You’re hesitant, unsure if it’s a trap. “Really? You’ll let me cook? I’m not dreaming, right?”

Jerome cackles again, and you lean your head on his shoulder. “Gosh, doll, we should get you sleepy more often. You’re too sweet when you’re like this! Oooh, I could just eat you up!” He playfully nips at your ear and you swat him away, too tired to really put up a fight. Jeremiah scoffs, but he has a smirk on his face too. 

“Alright, I guess. I’ll try-” You’re interrupted by another yawn. “I’ll try not to set the kitchen on fire. It would serve you both right, though.”

Your eyelids slowly slide shut as you feel Jerome scoop you up in his arms, some parody of a bridal carry. If this were any situation other than what it is, it would be domestic, even sweet. You hate yourself for how you snuggle closer into his chest, to the warmth of his skin and the even pace of his heart.

“God, you’re so cute.” You feel Jerome kiss you on the forehead, but the sensation is vague, fuzzy like static, already consumed by sleep. “Can’t wait until we get to ruin you. It’s gonna be so much fun.”

You’re so tired lately. Putting up with them takes so much energy, and you didn’t even have a choice in the matter to begin with. Sometimes it feels like your legs won’t move at all, until one of them shows up behind you with candied words and a sharp blade.

He rests you down on the mattress, and you let yourself, for once, think of nothing at all.

* * *

“Again?”

This has to be the third or fourth time this month he’s caught you alone in the maze. Both brothers seem to have a personal vendetta against privacy, especially now that you’ve made it clear you refuse to be subservient. You’re finding it harder and harder to muster up that spark, though, that fire that itched at you whenever you contemplated the reason you were here. For all Jeremiah’s talk of keeping you safe and unharmed, of Jerome being dangerous, he has no problem leaving you alone with him while he works, or whenever you’re acting up. He’ll coo over your injuries all he likes, but he sees your own mind as a bigger threat to your health than Jerome could ever be. They both have gotten quite adept at quashing any small attempt at rebellion you try, with their hands and their words and sadistic, pretty tools.

“Still don’t have a bedroom,” you remind him. “Or a room at all. Anything. This is the best I’ve got.”

Jerome quirks the corner of his mouth, before abruptly grabbing the collar of your shirt and pulling you to your feet. He’s smiling, as always, but it looks more like he’s baring his teeth now, eyes alight with what might be frustration. It’s that look that makes your objections die before they can begin, that makes you think he might be done with you for good. 

“You know,” he says, and you feel the cold edge of a knife at your throat, “if living here is really so terrible, we can find someone else. Someone a little more _appreciative_ for everything we do for them, yeah?”

“No!” Sensations play tug-of-war with your body - a chill down your spine, thin beads of blood springing up at your throat, Jerome’s hand pressing your shoulder to the wall. You’re not sure what thought is worse; the idea of your life ending, just like that, or someone innocent being plucked from their former life, same as you, and brought here. “No, please.”

His smile widens, ghastly, and the blade cuts just a bit deeper. “Really? You seemed pretty miserable. You sure you don’t want to, uh, check out?”

“Jerome, please, don’t.” Your hands find the lapels of his grey tailcoat and grip the fabric like it’s a lifeline, shaky and desperate. “I’m sorry, I really am. Please.”

He looks you up and down, then pulls the blade away. You crumple, clutching your throat and breathing shallow, watery breaths. Jerome kneels to meet you, rubs your back, clucks his tongue.

“Aw, babe, you don’t look too good. Let me kiss it better, huh?”

He grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look up at him, and moves in for a bruising kiss. It hurts, especially when he bites down on your bottom lip, drawing blood that oozes to the surface with a vengeance. It’s painful and clumsy, purposefully messy, and by the time he draws away you’re panting and heaving in relief that it’s over.

“I’m glad you reconsidered. Life with us isn’t too bad, is it?”

The evidence drips from the corners of your mouth, the edges of your cuts, smeared with saltwater. Still, you draw an unsteady breath.

“No.”

“In fact,” Jerome tilts his head, “I’d say we treat you pretty damn good here.”

It’s not a question. You nod your head as best you’re able.

“Y-yeah.”

His face breaks out in a pleased grin, irritation having turned to manic glee. “Excellent! I’m so glad you feel that way, darlin’. That you’re thankful for us being here for you.”

You’re pliant, too waterlogged and fearful to protest, as he moves your quavering legs apart, sits between them, licks the blood away from the cut on your neck.

“Now prove it.”

* * *

You awaken in a cold sweat, a scream dying on your lips and tears inexplicably rolling down your face. The sheets around your legs are twisted, tangled, presumably from your thrashing around in your sleep. You hear the man beside you shift, stir, then sit up, rubbing his eyes and groaning. 

“Look,” Jerome’s voice is deep, thick with drowsiness, “I get that you’re not totally jazzed about spooning, but sharing a bed with Jeremiah isn’t exactly better, so-”

“No, no,” you shake your head, “nightmare. A bad one.”

The door creaks, and Jeremiah peers in, shadowed and silhouetted by the ambient light of the hallways. 

“Jerome, what are you doing that’s making them scream at 4:30 AM? If you got blood on my brand new sheets again, I’m going to be so annoyed.”

“Rude,” Jerome scoffs, “wasn’t me this time. They had a nightmare. A doozy, if you believe ‘em.”

Jeremiah’s posture tenses, and he sits at the edge of the bed. A pale hand stretches out to caress your cheek, and despite everything the chilled touch is welcome. They both look like monsters in the dark, a spectre and a zombie, but they hold you so carefully it’s hard to deflect their attention. 

“What was it about?” Jerome’s voice is too cheerful. “Drowning? No, buried alive? _Eaten_ alive?”

Jeremiah shoves him. “Have some tact.”

“No,” you repeat. Realization slowly dawns on you, and you don’t want to let the words slip from your mouth. “It was nothing. I’m fine.”

“Oh, c’mon, sugar. It wasn’t nothing. You were screaming like you wanted to wake the dead, and you’re as pale as dear Miah here-” Jeremiah shoves him again, and his glower soon switches back to a look of worry.

“I... uh...” You avoid their twin gazes, look down at the bedsheets. “It was about... you.”

Jerome raises his eyebrows, and can’t avoid a condescending laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned. Never thought you’d lose any sleep over us before. We must really be getting under your skin, huh?”

Jeremiah also looks faintly amused, but he doesn’t lose that edge of concern in his voice. 

“What was it like? Were we hurting you?”

“You died. Both of you.” You hate the implication that those words carry, that you woke up _screaming_ at the thought of them dying. “Acid. Suicide. I don’t remember the details.”

You do. You just don’t want to tell them any more than you already have.

Jerome is still cracking up, but the laughter is slowly petering out. Jeremiah moves closer to you, pets your head.

“Don’t worry, dear. I don’t know about Jerome, but I don’t plan on dying yet. There are still too many things I haven’t accomplished.” He pulls up a corner of the sheets, slides under them as Jerome protests. 

“I don’t plan on dying either, you prick.” Jerome pulls the covers back over himself again, leaving you stuck between them. “Too much fun to have, things to see, people to kill. Nah, you’re not getting rid of me. Not a second time.”

Whatever residual cold you were feeling has now dissipated, replaced by searing, unpleasant warmth as Jeremiah kisses the top of your head and Jerome intertwines his fingers with yours. “I wouldn’t fret. I don’t think you’ll be rid of us any time soon.”

You lie back down, stare at the ceiling and try to ignore the warm bodies on either side of you, the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.

“No. I don’t think I will either.”


End file.
